


No Peaches

by Everyforkedroad



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: CMBYN - Freeform, Gen, Manhattan, Modern AU, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Post canon, Reunion, Shopping, call me by your name 10 minute challenge, domesticities, fluff and allusions to fluff, future elio, future oliver, older elio, older oliver
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-05-05 21:52:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14627760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Everyforkedroad/pseuds/Everyforkedroad
Summary: I tried this challenge a second time, this time being rigorous about the time limit (10 minutes, including editing). This one is modern au. I’m a little intimidated - there is an insane amount of talent in this fandom. I was tagged the first time by @holdmygazeoliver . Thanks for letting me play.Leave me a note - this is my second CMBYN fanfic ever :).





	No Peaches

 

“Peaches?” Elio repeated.

“No peaches. They’re out of season.” I answered again.

His mouth tightened, then he bit his lip in consternation. Soon he’d pout. If that happened, I’d have to leave our grocery cart in the middle of the aisle and take him home to wipe the pout off of his lips. I wanted to avoid doing that again. We had no food left and it was getting ridiculous, this not leaving the house since he’d moved to Manhattan. In Italy, he’d had Mafalda, who still cooked for Mrs. Perlman after all these years. But I’d moved into a studio apartment in the Upper East Side after the divorce and didn’t exactly have a Neopolitan chef at my beck and call. If we were going to eat, we’d have to slow down long enough to get dressed, buy food and fix our meals ourselves.

Elio reached for the under-ripened fruit, pressing each and wrinkling his nose before putting them down. “Okay, no peaches.  _ Supermercati Americani _ ,” he snarled under his breath.

I smirked. He hadn’t lost that touch of arrogance. There were infinitesimally tiny lines creasing the corners of his eyes now, though they were visible only when he smiled widely. His hair was still thick and dark, and he wore it even longer than he did that summer. I liked it - it gave him a rock star appearance that belied his more staid occupation as a composer and music critic. He was still slight of build but he’d lost the softness of adolescence and had long grown into the wiry muscles of his body, his gawkish arms and legs lengthening into long-limbed elegance. He was all man now, and it aroused me in a different way than it had those many summers ago.

He had drifted to the pasta aisle, a bunch of barely ripened bananas under his arm. He smiled - those delicate lines appeared - and turned to me, juggling boxes of penne. “What do you say to  _ penne alla crema di tartufo _ tonight?”

“You cooking?” I said, taking everything from him and placing it in the cart.

“I’m cooking,” he answered, the irritation at the missing peaches gone, replaced by the glitter of humor and, behind that, pure happiness. “It’s about time you learned to eat well again.”

 


End file.
